I had resolved on finding admittance for my work. I wrote at once to the Woods and Forests, calling upon them to widen the door for genius, by taking down a portion of the wall: but it will hardly be believed, that though there were, at the time, plenty of workmen about the building, no answer was returned to my request. Alas! it is all very well to sing, as they do in Der Freischutz, 'Through the Woods and through the Forests,' but towards me the Woods and Forests proved themselves utterly impenetrable.

"It will be seen that the arch-conspirator—for so I must continue to call him, though he could not be got into the archway—has placed his hat upon the ground, a little point in which I have blended imagination with history, and both with convenience. The imagination suggests that such a villain ought not to wear his hat; history does not say that he did, which is as much as to hint that he didn't; while convenience, coming to the aid of both, renders it necessary for his hat to lie upon the ground; for if I had tried to place it on his head, there would have been no room for it There was one gratifying circumstance connected with this cartoon, which, in spite of my being charged with vanity, I must repeat. As it was carried through the streets, it seemed to be generally understood and appreciated; every one, even children, exclaiming as it passed, 'Oh! there's a Guy!'

"George Cruikshank."

There was some bitterness in this jesting; for Cruikshank felt conscious of the latent power to execute a cartoon about which there should have been no buffoonery. Alas! his lines had been cast in humble places. He had lived to earn his bread from day to day in the grotesque market; and the solemn and poetic side of his genius had been left unworked, or had been only partially and fitfully developed as he became an illustrator of books.

In the Almanac which included the Guy Fawkes cartoon appeared Cruikshank's Father Mathew, a nice man for a small party. Father Mathew appears in the shape of a pump or filter to a convivial domestic circle, and holds parley with them. The animated pump, with the extended handle for a warning arm, and the spout for a nose, is an old Cruikshankian figure. "Touch not—taste not," says the preacher-pump: "if you must take anything, take the Pledge."

Paterfamilias, with a severe frown and aggressive attitude, has turned upon the intruder. "Dost thou think," he says, "because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" Pater's friend is more insinuating, and has an excuse. "Why, you see, old gent," he remarks, "the case is this—the ladies insist upon my singing a comic song, and I should like to know how I am to manage that over a glass of pump-water." The grandfather pleads: "Won't you allow an old gentleman a little warm elder wine this cold night?" And the buxom lady of the house is coaxing: "Pray take a chair, sir, and taste my home-made wine, or a glass of our home-brewed ale." These suggested compromises expressed very faithfully the mood of the artist's mind at the time. His sympathies inclined him towards the Apostle of Temperance; but he was not yet prepared to go over, body and soul, to the cause. The picture is accompanied by an "Ode to Father Mathew," conceived in a spirit of hearty opposition, that only goes towards proving that Cruikshank was at the half-way house of elder and home-made wines and home-brewed beer, between the punch bowl and the pump. The ode is in the fine old style:—

The kindly humourist's etching-needle was inspired by every good cause. These almanacs have all morals underlying the fun. Cruikshank liked to have an object in view. No class, no creature was too humble for his sympathy. Landseer never drew anything better than the plate of the Dog-Days—suggested by "the Dogs Bill" of 1843. Two hard-working, very radical dogs who are drawing a truckful of hardware, scowl at a pair of genteel dogs, extravagantly arrayed, and smoking cigars, who cross their path. First radical dog says he believes they don't know the side "their tails hang on," they are so proud—adding, "Why, a cousin of mine, as lives at Barking, tells me as how the celebrated dog Billy has grown so proud that he has declined to kill any more rats. And as to cigars! why bless you, there ain't a Puppy about Town but wot has got a cigar stuck in his mouth." In a corner a watch-dog and a dancing dog are talking over their grievances; while in the distance a lady tells her footman to take care her spaniel, Duchess, does not get her feet wet. The dogs are inimitable. Bloomers, crinoline, over-population (a Cruikshankian plate showing the housetops covered with the superabundant humanity), the "steamed-out" stage-coachman, the "fast man," female parliaments, baby-jumpers, cheap excursion trains, taking the census, the effect of the Peace Society (a regiment hay-making), Jullien as the President of the French Republic, "with entire new politics and polkas," a pack of knaves, being a meeting of the betting interest,—these are but a few notable pictures of the crowded gallery. Cruikshank revelled in the fun, and sought to extract wisdom from it He had an old-fashioned idea of woman and her rights, and was sharp with his needle over female suffrage, ladies in pantalettes, and women of mind.

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Henry Mayhew wrote some verses on a woman of mind, during one of the years of his editorship (1847), beginning,—

Cruikshank's picture of her is one of his stereotyped, ill-favoured, stuck-up, figureless ladies, of whom a friend said one day, when looking over some sketches, in Amwell Street, "Why, George, your females are all shaped like hour-glasses."

For pure fun nothing could be better than the "Banquet of the Black Dolls," in commemoration of the reduction of the Duty on Bags. The doll who occupies the chair has before her a Grand Potage de Dripping, and the menu includes Pâté de Horseshoes, Omelette de Old Iron, Bones Boil-é, Rag-out de Superior White Linen Rag, Fricassée de Broken Glass, and Poudin Kitchen Stuff.

The arrival of Tom Thumb, and his reception by the élite of society, as the bills said, and the brilliant court he held under a shower of John Bull's gold in Piccadilly, suggested two scenes to hard-working and most moderately-paid Cruikshank. The first is called "Born a Genius." In a garret a poor artist sits in despair and poverty—his empty plate upon the table, his tattered boots upon the floor. The second is called "Born a Dwarf."